


roller rink

by spiritscript



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Rollerblades & Rollerskates, just being in love with your best friend and finally doing something about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 02:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30014868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/pseuds/spiritscript
Summary: “Skating,” Osamu says, leaning on one of his hands, eyes carefully fixed on Rintarou’s, “ya were watching the rink. I thought maybe ya wanted ta give it a go.”Rintarou grins at the prospect, at this little game, at what Osamu’s suggesting beyond just skating. “And what? Ditch everyone on team bonding night?”Sometimes, it takes falling on your ass to confront your feelings.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 32
Kudos: 120
Collections: SunaOsa





	roller rink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coziester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coziester/gifts).



> [Mae](https://twitter.com/coziimae) sent me [this song](https://open.spotify.com/track/0jGGR87DzKEDba8hJDkACs?si=x3BZePaJRP-nHevowfInwg). I fixated and p much listened to it on repeat for 24 hrs. I complained to her for sending it to me and wanting to write a short fic inspired by it. she told me to write it. so i did
> 
> Not a song fic but the vibe and general them in a roller rink is inspired by it so give it a listen if you'd like, or not, free will and all that
> 
> Additional note. there is one mention of nosebleeds. no one actually bleeds it's a metaphor but if that's something you wanna skip just miss the paragraph beginning with "Rintarou knows he laughs a little too much when he’s around Osamu."

“You wanna give it a go?”

Rintarou tears his eyes away from where he was staring into space, to look at who had just spoken. 

Osamu. He’s standing there, under the drifting neon lights that break over him and cast coloured shadows over his hooded, lazy eyes and noncommittal pout. The light grey of his dyed hair seems to soak in the colour, turning it red and yellow in patches, and bleeding orange where they meet. He looks bored. He always looks bored. Rintarou was bored, right until this moment. Now his heart is beating noticeably and the music thrums in his veins, painting his insides, his stomach feeling the way the colours look as they flicker and change around them.

Rintarou hums, aware Osamu probably can’t hear it over the bass that trails its way from the DJ deck and snakes it’s way gently to them, to travel up his legs and through his bones. Suddenly he feels jittery, a need to move. Osamu takes a drink of his soda, the ice in the bottom of the cup rattles.

Rintarou holds out a hand, Osamu hands him the drink.

“You didn’t answer me,” Osamu says, sitting in the booth opposite Rintarou, his knees brushing and knocking against Rintarou’s, knocking the jitters out of him so they fall in shattered little pieces onto the floor with torn up arcade tickets and straw wrappers—he couldn’t move now if he wanted, stuck to the spot like gum under the table. So he keeps them firmly there. Osamu doesn’t move his either. 

Ah. So it’s one of those nights.

Rintarou takes the straw between his fingers and twirls it gently. “Answer what?” he asks without inflection, before bringing his lips down and taking a drag of drink and looking up at Osamu under his eyelashes.

“Skating,” Osamu says, leaning on one of his hands, eyes carefully fixed on Rintarou’s, “ya were watching the rink. I thought maybe ya wanted ta give it a go.”

Rintarou grins at the prospect, at this little game, at what Osamu’s suggesting beyond just skating. “And what? Ditch everyone on team bonding night?”

“Why not? We’ve done it plenty before,” he says and it’s nothing but innocent. There’s nothing else behind those words but the simple statement that it is. Why not. They’re just friends. Sometimes this is what friends do—they abandon all of their other friends and responsibilities to spend time together and tell terrible jokes and bitch about people and knock knees and watch movies and play fight and let their faces drift a little too close together so they can imagine they can feel the other’s heartbeat and can feel the heat of each other’s breath and—

Rintarou twirls the staw between his fingers again and grins a little. He hadn’t realised what he’d been staring at, trying instead to tune out the sound of _Captain Atsumu_ and whatever he was yapping on about this time. He’d decided to let Osamu and Ginjima deal with that.

“Can you even skate?” Rintarou asks, he’d be lying if he said there isn’t something tugging at his heart, telling him to take Osamu’s hand and rent some battered roller skates that will feel strange on his feet, and watch as Osamu flails or succeeds at skating—either way, he’d watch the way the languidly changing lighting would move over him like delicate fingertips brushing over his skin. Feel the way the music will redirect itself to swirl around him, so every soft word becomes his, about him. Watch him smile and see the way it swallows everything around them, and ground Rintarou like a lightning rod. And then he’d feel some sort of envy sweeping through him at the lights and the music and at himself for all the times he’s touched him before and the fact that he’s not at this moment.

“Course,” Osamu says with a snort and snatches the soda back from Rintarou’s hand, fingers brushing so quickly Rintarou could try to make himself believe he imagined it. But this is Osamu, and Osamu leaves a burning trail in his wake when it comes to Rintarou. Each gentle and rough and in-between touch burrowing itself under his skin, becoming a part of him, searing itself into his bones so they ache for more, flowing through his bloodstream and making him feel as if he’s burning from the inside out.

Rintarou is the one people usually call destruction. If so, Osamu is the stillness before the crack of lightning, that dull, heavy air thick with anticipation, always leaving you weighted and waiting and begging for the break. It’s so much worse.

And every second of him weighs heavy on Rintarou’s chest.

“I’m good at everything,” Osamu says leaning back, and he doesn’t smile but there’s that feral little glint in his eyes that only ever means trouble. Always trouble. 

“That right?” Rintarou asks with a wry smile and taps one chipped nail on the table. “What about—”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Okay so—”

“We said we’d never talk about that—”

“No, I’m pretty sure you said that, and I didn’t agree—”

“Suna Rintarou,” he says and wedges a knee in between Rintarou’s, knocking against him a little harder.

“Miya Osamu,” Rintarou counters, leaning forward on the sticky table and levelling him with a glare.

“And if I tell about the time you—” Osamu tries.

“Don’t care.”

“Or—”

“‘Samu,” Rintarou hadn’t noticed his mouth pulling into a grin until he felt the ache in his cheeks. “You have absolutely nothing on me and you know this.”

Osamu seethes for a moment, _harrumphs_ and picks up his soda one last time, the slurping sounds as he finishes make Rintarou laugh. 

“So, can you actually skate or are you subsisting entirely on _‘Miya Pride’_?”

“‘ _‘Miya Pride_?’ The hell’s that?” he asks, almost slamming the cup back down, making Rintarou drop his head and laugh a little more. He peaks up at Osamu from behind his hair, and sees him scowling.

“Ya better not be lumpin’ me in with ‘Tsumu,” he mumbles.

“Oh, you bet I am. You two have this sense of pride that’s so large you—”

He’s cut off by the straw that’s thrown at him. Not for long though.

“—hubris would probably describe it better.”

“The fuck is hubris?” 

Rintarou knows he laughs a little too much when he’s around Osamu. The sound seems to spill out of him far too easily, like a bloody nose. He could try and catch it, hold it in. But it would be as useful as trying to hold water in his hands. So he lets it flow, wash out and over him. The best thing to do when a nose is bleeding is to let it run and drain and not run down the back of the throat. He might choke if he tried to stop it, the laughter. He gave up a long time ago trying to stop it. So he laughs again. He finds he enjoys laughing with Osamu.

“Pride, usually excessive,” Rintarou says, “we learned about it in lit last year.”

Osamu nods and bites his lip.

“You don’t remember?”

And there it is, the _Miya Pride_ inside him telling him to maybe tell Rintarou a little white lie, pretend he remembers so he can save face. 

Not that it would do much—Rintarou has seen him in all his hopeless studying and academic woes, up close and personal. They’ve spent countless hours together studying and not quite studying inside their shared classroom and in Rintarou’s bedroom or the Miya’s living room. Long nights spent sprawled with too many snacks scattered between them that often devolved into definitely not studying by any means necessary. This sometimes included questionable searches on the internet, or watching the worst movies they could find, trying to guess the endings in the most ridiculous ways possible, and video games, and stupid stories and jokes and conspiracy theories about people they know and people they don’t.

Every single time, they’d start on opposite sides of each other and end up sprawled, bodies overlapping, and Rintarou’s skin on fire in every way. And then Rintarou would say something or do something and the laughter would fall, run, and someone would shove someone and they’d fight, but not really. They’d fight, and they’d end up close, their faces so close together they could feel the other’s heartbeat and the heat of each other’s breath and—

“No,” Osamu resigns, “I don’t.”

“You gonna admit you don’t know how to skate then?”

He stands at that, a little indignant. “Can’t say I don’t know how to if I’ve never tried.”

Rintarou laughs feeling himself being tugged into Osamu’s gravity, and cannot help but follow him to the rental counter. 

“I will kick your ass,” Osamu says as he tugs at the laces and begins to tie them. The music is louder here, but Rintarou hears every word as if spoken right into his ear. 

“At what?” Rintarou asks, arching an eyebrow perfectly to level Osamu with a look.

“Skating.”

“How?”

“By being better than you, duh,” Osamu rolls his eyes and Rintarou bites his cheek.

“Right,” Rintarou says slowly, “of course, and how are you going to prove that?”

Osamu pouts at this, again, and his brow furrows. Then he tries to stand up a little too fast, and his legs almost go from underneath him, only managing to catch himself at the last second by grabbing onto Rintarou, almost pushing them both flat onto the bench.

Rintarou looks up at him surprised, and Osamu’s fingers are burning through the fabric of his thin shirt, his face is so close, his breath is so warm—

“This a new trick I haven’t heard of?” he asks instead of kissing Osamu, instead of letting his hands snake up around to the back of Osamu’s neck and tugging him closer, instead of letting his knees fall open so Osamu can slot himself between them—instead of all this, he smiles sharply and watches as Osamu huffs a breath of air into his face. Then Osamu's pulling away and falling backwards into the side of the rink.

Rintarou could never want to stop the laugh he barks at the spectacle—Osamu looks terrified, eyes wide, almost pleading, legs askew as he clings onto the boards for dear life.

He doesn't have to say anything, Osamu’s face is already burning red beneath the lights that dance over it.

“You were saying?” Rintarou asks, a little smug, as he rises a little shakily—it’s been a while since he’s worn skates himself. Moving from Aichi to Hyogo was a big step for Rintarou, and too big for his sister, so she stayed behind with his mother. But before that, without fail, he used to take her to the local skate park every weekend, because she got the idea she wanted to learn how to skate. So he was forced to learn first so he could hold her hand and drag her around until she could do it by herself. Suddenly he’s hit with how much he misses her, but Osamu is looking irritated and vengeful, causing Rintarou’s stomach to flip. He never feels alone when he’s with Osamu.

Rintarou reaches out a hand. “Need some help?”

Osamu watches it for a moment, maybe trying to read something there, and Rintarou would be worried about him reading it wrong. But whatever they are, there can’t be any wrong interpretations. Friends, not quite something, something. They’re everything and all the bits in between too.

So Osamu takes his hand, which lights up Rintarou’s entire body, and Rintarou has to fight the urge to smile and laugh simply because right now, he feels such a shocking joy and happiness sparkling through his body. Then, without thinking because he’s thought about it so much his body decides to react of its own accord, he slots his fingers between Osamu’s and knows he doesn’t imagine the small squeeze in his heart in time to the small squeeze of his hand. 

He guides them onto the floor and feels the small little squeezes and tugs in his hand that run up his arm each time one of Osamu’s skates threatens to go rogue. 

“Not so cocky now?” Rintarou asks him, and he doesn’t even try to hide the cockiness in his own voice.

Osamu is barely standing, knees turned in, looking as if he’s finding his feet for the first time. Around them are the sounds of arcade games and cheesy pop music and so much laughter. This, right here, feels like something Rintarou has to remember. It’s not so much the time or the place, or even the person—but the way these little things have stacked up inside him. It feels like he has to remember this. That it’s one of those moments he’ll want to pull out and polish and frame so he can remember it for the rest of his life. And the time or the place or the person doesn’t matter, but without them it would crumble and fall. And he doesn’t want that.

“Fuck you,” Osamu spits, but Rintarou knows a secret, and that secret is written in Osamu’s fingers and the way they wrap a little tighter, in his eyes and the way they stay wide and soft. In the tone of his voice that is anything but bitter. 

Two can play this game, and they’re so used to playing these games. So Rintarou lets go of his hand, leaving Osamu without support. 

“Oh well, if that’s the way you’re going to act,” He shrugs, putting his hands behind his back, pressing his thumbs into his palms to make sure all of the sensations now seared there stay there, sink as deep as they can, and begins skating backwards just a little, “guess you don’t need me.”

“Rin—”

“Hmm?” Rintarou hums and puts a hand up to his ear as the song changes to something Rintarou actually knows, and begins to mouth dramatically, _‘I can’t hear you over the music sorry!’_

Osamu is panicked, literally like a deer in headlights under the lights of the rink. Rintarou wants nothing more than to kiss him. Again. Because they had kissed once, but they didn’t speak of it afterwards.

It was one of those nights, like most of their nights, that was supposed to have them working on an assignment, or taking turns reading their assigned reading aloud, or something equally as innocuous. And how they got to the ending doesn’t matter because they eventually got there—Osamu kicked Rintarou’s leg then Rintarou’s hand sprung out to slap his shoulder, then they were struggling and suddenly Osamu was catching Rintarou’s wrists to restrain him while Rintarou’s legs tried to kick him away and then Osamu was right there—his face drifting a little too close and Rintarou imagined he could feel Osamu’s heart, which was beating just as quickly as his was in that moment, and they were so close they could feel the heat of each other’s breath and then, finally, Osamu’s lips were on his. It was soft, so very soft at first it felt like a brush of air—but Rintarou was right there and he’d wanted this for so long, probably longer than he realised, so this light, barely there brush wasn’t enough because this was Osamu. 

He leaned up into it and Osamu pushed right back, both of them meeting each other halfway. One of Rintarou’s hands went to the back of Osamu’s neck and the other buried itself into the old _YuGiOh_ shirt he was wearing, pulling him in closer to deepen the kiss. Osamu was right there, a hand on Rintarou’s cheek and the other on his hip, shifting him just enough to slot them together perfectly. Rintarou’s breath hitched and Osamu’s tongue met his while Rintarou’s legs went to wrap around Osamu’s hips.

Then there was a bang from outside and they jumped apart, spooked. Neither said anything for a moment, nervous, scared, something. Rintarou’s lips tingled. 

Then, they met each other halfway once again, it seemed, and pretended it didn’t happen. Nothing changed. Except the air around Osamu seemed more charged than before, his gravity heavier, and people may call Rintarou destruction, but Osamu is consuming.

He smiles as he watches Osamu’s face straighten, become cold. Or so he’d like to think. Rintarou knows better. Rintarou turns a little less effortlessly than he’d like and takes a lap of the rink, making sure to show off just a little, hoping Osamu is watching, knowing he is. 

“Show off,” Osamu mutters when he comes to a stop in front of him, but his mouth tugs a little.

“What was that about winning earlier…?” Rintarou asks and quirks his head dramatically.

Osamu shoves his shoulder, but it doesn’t have the desired effect. Instead of Rintarou moving or falling, it’s Osamu that lands spectacularly on his ass. And if the squeak he lets out isn’t the most wonderful thing Rintarou’s ever heard, then the sad, affronted face Rintarou never imagined Miya Osamu would make, is.

Once again, without thinking, Rintarou offers him a hand as the children around them swerve to avoid the six foot tall volleyball player, sprawled on the floor like a newborn lamb. He wasn’t thinking because Osamu is tugging his arm and Rintarou’s skates are sliding and he lands half on Osamu, half on the floor beside him.

“You’re an asshole,” Rintarou mutters, but sighs and flops further onto Osamu rather than trying to get up. Osamu digs his arm out from beneath Rintarou and starts to push at him, but Rintarou lets his body go limp, and remains where he is, so Osamu gives up and lets his arm fall around Rintarou’s shoulder instead.

“So I win, right?” Rintarou asks, aware of the funny looks from children and parents and teens and maybe even staff. But he’s with Osamu, so he finds it impossible to care.

“Hmm,” it’s the most he’s going to get for a reply.

“What do I win?”

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Rintarou blows a disbelieving noise, and finally climbs to his knees before standing up, and he offers his hand to Osamu, again. Osamu considers it for a moment, and Rintarou doesn’t put it past Osamu to pull him back down again. He doesn’t. He almost does accidentally, but he manages to find his legs and rise back up, though unsteady.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Rintarou says, taking his hand and guiding him over to the edge.

“Callin’ me a liar?”

“Yes.” 

Osamu laughs at that and continues to smile and looks down at where Rintarou’s still holding his hand. 

“I have never once lied—” Osamu tries to say.

“What about—”

“Atsumu doesn’t count.” Osamu declares, face set and serious as he only is when it comes to being mean to Atsumu. Then the lights dim, and turn cold and white, but Osamu is still as warm as always. His hair is splayed over his forehead and his cheeks are dusted pink. Most importantly, he’s smiling. And it’s the warmest part of him. Rintarou would be happy to bathe in it, soak it in and do nothing else, become lazy and fat on it.

“Kiss me again,” Rintarou says easily, unaffected by the battering in his chest. His voice is steady and sure and this is the only thing he’s been able to think about for weeks now. His lips still tingle like firecrackers from the last one, and all he wants is to feel that again, feel Osamu. “Kiss me again.”

Osamu’s hands are on his face in a moment, but he seems to wait, as if Rintarou hadn’t asked him to kiss him twice already. Osamu is the build up but Rintarou is destruction, he's the lightning strike, so he closes the gap this time and presses his mouth to Osamu’s. Osamu who gasps lightly, just enough for Rintarou to deepen it. 

“Rin,” Osamu mumbles against lips, pulling back slightly, making Rintarou want to whine. “I’m sorry but I’m terrified I’m gonna slip in these fucking skates and bust your lip.”

And Rintarou is laughing again, something that comes so easily with Osamu and Osamu only. He drops his head onto Osamu’s shoulder, still laughing lightly.

“You’re fucking usesless at this.”

Osamu’s swatting at him again and Rintarou pulls back, grinning. Osamu’s grinning too.

“I like you,” Rintarou says, suddenly serious, but it comes out sounding like wonder. “‘Samu, I really like you.”

“You sound shocked,” he’s coloured pink by the lights and his blush again.

“No I—shut up. I’m trying to confess or whatever.”

“You’re doing great,” Osamu teases.

“I hate you.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yeah,” Osamu says and lets his fingertips brush over Rintarou’s forehead, pushing some of his hair out of his face. “‘Cause ya just said ya like me and then ya said ya hate me so one of those things is a lie.”

“I swear I will push you and send you sprawling on your ass Miya Osamu,” Rintarou threatens.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes,” Rintarou agrees without hesitation because there’s no way he couldn’t, “but maybe we should take those skates off you—can’t have one of us getting concussed or something.”

Osamu laughs and ducks his head, and Rintarou thinks, not for the first time or the last time, that he is hopelessly in love with him, and he never wants it to end.

**Author's Note:**

> the yugioh shirt is a shout out to mae because she loves yugioh but it most certainly is not yugioh gx. it is the og yugioh. obvs
> 
> Thank you to [regan](https://twitter.com/pancakesurprisd) for beta-ing and just being wonderful in generalll 
> 
> I'm on twitter [here!](https://twitter.com/ohmiyamy)!


End file.
